


Liquid Courage

by MistressKat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Challenge Response, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:45:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4882645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“There you are,” Sherlock said, lifting his gaze to John at the same time as he pulled the belt out of its loops, dropping it to the floor unceremoniously. “Is this clear enough?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liquid Courage

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of the [broadstairsbacc](http://broadstairsbacc.livejournal.com/) writing challenge where we all wrote a fic to a randomly picked fandom, prompt (mine was ‘drunken sex’ – I failed at the sex part!) and a Loveheart phrase which needed to be included. My Loveheart said _‘Ever yours’_. I have embellished the original version a little bit I must admit, in the process of tidying it for posting!

It was pissing it down by the time they got home and the mad tumble from the taxi to the front door left them both soaked and giggling. Although the latter likely had more to do with their blood alcohol levels than the all too familiar experience of being rained on.  
  
“London…” John paused to catch his breath between laughter and stray hiccups, “London’s pissed too!”  
  
“What?” Sherlock squinted at him through wet floppy curls. “A city cannot be angry. It’s not logisti… logago… logical.”  
  
“No, not mad. Pissed as in drunk. _Pissing it down._ ” John waved an illustrative hand at the rain pouring down outside.  
  
Sherlock blinked, head cocked to the side in a way that made him look like a bewildered cockatoo instead a genius detective. His fine cashmere scarf was probably irreparably ruined by the rain. “The English colloquialism involves a lot of blond… boob… body fluids, doesn’t it?” he observed.  
  
“Bloody right it does!” John agreed before pointing a finger at Sherlock. “ _Boobs!_ ” he declared delightedly, snickering.  
  
“I assure you I have no such things,” Sherlock responded with the kind of indignant solemnity that sent John into fresh peals of laughter.  
  
After a minute or five he finally managed to compose himself again, wiping at his eyes unsteadily. “Also,” John said, flapping a hand in Sherlock’s general direction. “How the fuck can you still say 'colloquialism' but not logais… locus… The other word.”  
  
Sherlock smirked at him, but it wasn’t his usual sneering expression of superiority. The alcohol, the late hour and – John liked to think – the company, had softened the twist of his lips into something almost… fond. They’d been out trailing a potential suspect in a case of what Sherlock had labelled as ‘petty espionage games that keep Mycroft off the chocolate cake’ and the evening had included several pubs. Sherlock had of course solved the case after the second one, loftily announcing that he would be able to give his brother a detailed report of what had exchanged hands, where and by whom and that they might as well go home now.  
  
However, John hadn’t much felt like sitting at Baker Street, watching Sherlock slip back into aggressive boredom and had instead persuaded him to keep the surveillance operation up, challenging Sherlock’s observational abilities when under the influence of an increasing number of pints and not a few shots. Surprisingly, Sherlock had agreed, and not so surprisingly at all, had shown very little deterioration of his detection skills even when drunk.  
  
It was only now that they were safely back home that he seemed to allow the alcohol to take proper hold, his eyes slightly unfocussed as he leaned against the baluster, loose-limbed and… _approachable_ in a way John would have never described Sherlock in normal circumstances. It also made him think of things he usually ignored as impossible, things like reaching out and touching the long pale column of Sherlock’s neck, following the path of rain drops with his fingers, all the way to where they disappeared down the open vee of his shirt collar and…  
  
“John?” Sherlock was suddenly much closer, smelling of rain and damp wool, and the faintest trace of his expensive aftershave, so close that John could see the dark shadow of stubble at the curve of his jaw. “Do you…?” There was something fragile in his voice, the way he wouldn’t quite meet John’s eyes, his hand hovering in the air like he was about to…  
  
John shook his head, trying to clear it. “I need a piss,” he said gruffly, pushing past Sherlock and starting up the stairs.  
  
“Increased liquid intake,” Sherlock said, mumbling what sounded like calculations of body mass index and absorption times as he trailed after John.  
  
By the time John was finished in the bathroom, he was feeling the effects of the alcohol too. Everything was ever so slightly soft around the edges and the temptation to just go straight to bed was great. But he’d left Sherlock in the living room, struggling with his coat, and John’s conscience wasn’t letting him retire before he’d checked that the fool hadn’t suffocated in his own scarf or something.  
  
“Sherlock?” John called, walking down the stairs carefully, one hand on the wall. “You alright? It might be time to go to…” John trailed off, mouth suddenly slack, his tongue refusing to cooperate.  
  
Sherlock, it seemed, had won the battle with his coat. And shoes. _And_ his shirt. In fact, he was currently standing in the middle of the floor, naked from waist up and unbuckling his belt with fingers that were indecently steady given how very drunk John _knew_ he was.  
  
“There you are,” Sherlock said, lifting his gaze to John at the same time as he pulled the belt out of its loops, dropping it to the floor unceremoniously. “Is this clear enough?” He spread his arms briefly in a ‘ta-dah’ gesture which should have been silly but instead only served to display the lean muscles of Sherlock’s torso to their advantage, the light from the table lamp casting flickering shadows across his skin.  
  
“What?” John asked, because… “ _What?_ ” His mouth was desert dry despite all the drinking, and he’d taken a step forward before he’d consciously made a decision to do so.  
  
“This,” Sherlock said, hand coming to rest on the fly of his trousers, thumb slowly pushing the button through the eyelet. “I’ve been trying to… But you just…” He huffed, shaking his head, clearly unused to being unable to articulate exactly what he meant. “Come on, John! You’re supposed to be good at this stuff!” Sherlock snapped finally, audibly frustrated now though the anger was nothing but a mask for uncertainty, so thin that even drunk John could see through it. “Don’t you want to…?”  
  
There was no way John could let Sherlock finish that question. In two steps he was there, so close that their chests were brushing together at each inhale, Sherlock’s skin almost feverishly hot when John closed his fingers around his wrist, both of their hands resting against the tense quiver of Sherlock’s stomach now. “Yes,” he said, “ _yes_ ,” breathing the word against the hollow of Sherlock’s throat, the underside of his jaw, lips travelling up, catching against the stubble. In his arms Sherlock sighed, a fine tremor that pushed his body against John’s, all warmth and sinuous need.  
  
“Yes,” John said again, pressing the promise into Sherlock’s skin, words like ‘always’ and ‘ever’ and ‘yours’ getting lost in the sharp taste of alcohol as their mouths finally met, tangled and held firm in a kiss that left both of them moaning, the sound muffled by the relentless rain beating against the windows.  
  



End file.
